Age of War

by Michael J. Sullivan

  “I know, I know, you’re my Shield, and a damn fine one, but that doesn’t mean you have to die with me.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  Persephone sighed. “You’re being stupid. You all are.”

  Moya nodded. “Maybe, but if that’s the case, there are a lot of dumb people in Alon Rhist right now because no one’s leaving. I saw them on the way here. They’re rebuilding the walls a stone at a time. Bakers, weavers, and former farmers are out there, stacking stones. I asked Bergin why he was bothering. I expected him to say it was to hide behind or something. But you know what he said?” She paused to swallow, an act that took effort. “He said, ‘To protect the keenig.’ I told him that was my job. He said, ‘No—that’s everyone’s job.’ ”

  “That’s wrong. It’s the keenig’s job to protect all of you,” Persephone said.

  “Most of the time, maybe, but not today.”

  Moya picked up a bundle she’d laid near the door and placed it on the bed. Unfolding it, she revealed two long daggers of shiny metal. “Compliments of Roan.” She handed one to Brin and one to Persephone.

  “Are these to use on the enemy or ourselves?” Persephone asked.

  “I suppose that’s for you to decide.” Moya started for the door. “Need to check things. You do, too, don’t you, Tekchin?”

  The Fhrey looked puzzled for a moment. “Check on…Oh, sure.” He grinned. “Be back in a minute,” he told the rest of them. “I have to check on things.”

  Moya waved to Persephone. “Might take him longer than that. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  “Going down to the courtyard?” Brin asked.

  “Ah—passing through it. Why?”

  “Thought I’d walk with you.”

  “Brin, we—” Moya stopped. “You want to see Tesh, don’t you?”

  Brin blushed. “Maybe.”

  “Those who are sticking around,” Nyphron said, “let’s get back to reinforcing the doors. Those bridges will be completed sooner than we want.”

  “That means he’s going to point at things he wants me to move.” Grygor winked at Persephone as he and the others filed out.

  “Nyphron?” Persephone stopped him.

  The Fhrey lord lingered at the door, looking back as the others moved past.

  He stood straight, that bold chin held high, the lamplight gleaming on him. Dashing, that really was the word for him. His blond hair was thrown back over his shoulders, his bronze armor polished to a dazzling shine, emphasizing his shoulders and chest. Yes, dashing.

  “I’ve been thinking about what Arion said.” Persephone struggled once more to sit up straighter. She always felt so small when talking to Nyphron. “About sending a bird to the fane and telling them about Suri.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Why can’t—oh…” She paused, concerned. “Was the pigeon loft destroyed?” So much had been lost in that last assault.

  “No, Alon Rhist still has its full complement of those, but we’ve gone over this. You saw what the Miralyith did to Arion. Suri probably survived because they didn’t know about her. Besides, I don’t think you know how bird couriers work. They are trained to fly home. Home in this case is a coop in the palace in Estramnadon. The army is across the chasm. By all accounts, so is the fane. A message sent by bird won’t reach him.”

  “But Arion was so adamant about it. So certain it could help save both our peoples.”

  “I hate speaking ill of the dead, but Arion was Miralyith. I’ve never trusted them. Now if there is nothing else, this is my fortress—what’s left of it. I should see about securing it the best I can. Don’t want to disappoint the fane. He’ll be expecting a valiant last stand from the Instarya.”

  “Can I ask you a question before you go?”

  “You’re the keenig,” the Fhrey lord said with a smile. “Your wish is my command.”

  She smirked. “I’ve been thinking about your proposal.”

  Nyphron chuckled. “Little point in that now.”

  “I actually think that now is the perfect time to think about it. There’s no pressure anymore.”

  This appeared to puzzle him, then he shrugged it off and asked, “What did you want to know?”

  “I was wondering—well, if let’s say the fane and his army just vanished with the rising sun—do you think you could ever love me?”

  “Love you?” The words mystified him. “I’m not even certain what love is. That Rhune word doesn’t translate well, you know. And as far as my understanding takes me, it isn’t all that clearly defined in the Rhunic culture, either. So, let me ask, do you?”

  “Do I what? Do I know what love is, or do I think I could love you?”

  “Take your pick.”

  “I think it’s possible to love anyone.”

  “Well, there’s your answer then.”

  “That’s my answer. I want to know yours.”

  Nyphron stared at her and licked his lips. “You want an honest answer, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  He nodded. “Honestly, as I said, I don’t know if I understand what love is to begin with, much less what you may happen to think it is. I think you’re a decent person, above average intelligence, you’re practical, usually logical, and don’t annoy me too much—except when talking about love. But if it helps, let me clarify my position. Should a miracle occur and we survive tomorrow, I would want to marry you for political reasons, as a means of uniting our people and increasing our power. I won’t be faithful; you should know that. And as one-sided or as unfair as it may seem, I would insist that you be. Not because I would be upset if you entertained another man, Fhrey, Dherg, or Grenmorian for that matter, but because your children will rule the world we make, and my bastards won’t have any claim, making my infidelity irrelevant. Make no mistake about it, our union would be a business arrangement, plain and simple, and one that would benefit me more than you. But ultimately our union would provide the most reward for the Rhune and Instarya peoples. Still, I hoped it would be based on mutual respect and honesty.”

  “I see.” That was all she could think to say. What else could she say? “Doesn’t matter anymore, I suppose.”

  “No, I can’t see how it would. Anything else?”

  She shook her head, and the dashing fellow in shining armor disappeared.

  Staring at the empty doorway, Persephone remembered Raithe’s words: I’ve loved you from the start. And it doesn’t matter if you can’t love me—whether it’s because you’re still in love with Reglan’s memory, or because you want to marry Nyphron. None of that matters because…because even now…even now…

  She remembered his voice, how it cracked and quavered, how his hands were squeezed into fists, the passion on his face.

  You’re practical, usually logical.

  Usually, she thought.

  Persephone shifted weight to throw her legs off the bed, but the pain ripped through her again.

  Okay—okay!

  She would wait for Brin or Moya to come back, then she’d send for Raithe. She wanted to see him before the attack. She needed to tell him the truth.

  I have time. Another hour or two won’t make a difference.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Malcolm

  We called him Malcolm, but I realize now that was not his only name.

  —THE BOOK OF BRIN

  “Need a sword to put the name on,” Roan said, concerned.

  The smithy was silent except for the low thrum of the furnace. Always burning, the fire kept the big room hot and the walls shimmering. In that fiery glow, everyone watched Raithe. Everyone except Suri, who stared at the floor.

  Roan’s eyes betrayed a panic that Raithe didn’t understand until he realized all the weapons she’d made had been handed out. Not a shield, spear, helm,
or sword lay in the racks. Plenty of metal remained, most of it in a pile of rock beside the pile of charcoal, next to the pile of stacked wood.

  Raithe felt the pommel of the weapon at his side. “Can it be any sword?”

  “Doesn’t even have to be a sword,” Frost said. “Just something strong to etch the name on. But a sword would be best.”

  “What name?”

  “Your name,” Rain explained. “Your real name.”

  “Raithe is my real name.”

  Suri shook her head. “Not what your parents called you, the name Elan gave you.”

  Raithe didn’t know what that meant but didn’t think it important. He unbuckled his sword belt. Roan got up and reached out for it, but Suri shook her head. “That one already has a name.”

  Raithe sighed. “We’re in the middle of a war and no one here has a sword?”

  “What about your father’s blade?” Malcolm asked.

  “It’s broken.”

  “We’re in a smithy surrounded by the world’s premier sword smiths. I think they can do something about that. Where is the blade?”

  “I left it in the barracks.”

  Malcolm nodded and rushed out.

  “Can you fix it?” Raithe asked.

  “That blade is almost pure copper,” Frost said. “Would make a lousy sword for such a noble thing.”

  “We have tin,” Roan said, then looked at the dwarfs. “We could make a bronze sword. Be a lot faster to forge than iron.”

  “True,” Flood said. “Copper and tin melt fast and don’t need much heat, so it’ll take less time.”

  Rain was shaking his head. “I think we can do better. We could make black bronze.”

  “Need gold and silver for that, lad,” Frost replied.

  Reaching up, Rain pulled free the golden torc from his neck. He held it out. “Use this.”

  Frost and Flood looked at their companion in surprise.

  Rain frowned at the torc. “It’s only a trophy. What good is it if Erivan invades Belgreig? Our people need to contribute something. If sacrifice can save all of us, then all of us should sacrifice, and in light of Raithe’s contribution, this is indeed the least I can do.”

  “Still need silver,” Frost said.

  That’s when Tressa stepped forward. Although it took a bit of work, she managed to wrench a ring off her finger. “I was supposed to give this back when I returned the chieftain’s ring, but…” She looked down at it. “I’d lost my husband and thought I deserved to have something. And the ring looked better on my hand than the one Konniger had given me when we married. Consider it a contribution from Persephone and me.” She held it out. “Take it.”

  Frost took the silver circle of metal and eyed it.

  Malcolm returned with the broken blade, pausing to look at Tressa. “Strange, isn’t it? How in the right moment, even a vain, selfish act, like keeping a ring you don’t deserve, can be exchanged for a noble deed like this…and how a lost soul can, unwittingly it seems, take a first step toward redemption.”

  Tressa stared at him, her eyes widening. She raised her hand and pressed it against her mouth, muttering through her fingers, “Every single person in this room must do their part.”

  Malcolm nodded and laid the blade down. Herkimer’s sword was the same as it had been, but in the light of the forge it appeared redder. Raithe could see the multitude of scratches, pits, and divots. The edge was jagged, unintentionally serrated where his father had damaged it in countless battles.

  “My father died for this sword,” Raithe said. “But not really.”

  Roan looked up at him, puzzled.

  “It’s pride—false glory purchased with and steeped in the blood of innocents.” He looked at Roan with hopeful eyes. “If you can, I’d like you to make it into something better.”

  Roan nodded toward Flood, who stoked the furnace.

  She placed the broken copper sword into the furnace. Flood worked the bellows, puffing the coals a bright, eye-dazzling white.

  Frost took the circlet of gold. He measured off an amount, hewed it into two pieces, and added the larger to the furnace. Then he added Tressa’s ring to the crucible. The glow of the open furnace lit up all of their faces as Flood pumped the bellows and the metals merged. Feeling the heat, Raithe turned away and found Malcolm sitting in a darkened corner opposite the one Suri had claimed. They all sought space for solitude, each pair of eyes staring down demons.

  “Hey,” Raithe said, overturning a bucket to sit on.

  Malcolm, who had his back against the wall, his knees bent, glanced up and offered a sad smile.

  “You’ve been holding out on me, haven’t you?”

  With a guilty look, Malcolm held up two fingers, indicating something very small.

  “Did you know this would happen? When you hit Shegon with the rock, did you know about this?” Raithe gestured at Roan and the dwarfs.

  “Which answer would make you feel better?”

  “Well, on the one hand, if you knew, then you’re something of a lying bastard who manipulated me for a year.”

  Malcolm nodded.

  “On the other hand, if you hadn’t hit Shegon, I’d have died a year ago—died alone and forgotten on a rocky fork of land.”

  Malcolm continued nodding.

  “Don’t suppose it really matters much, now.”

  Malcolm shook his head.

  “So, what are you? Some kind of mystic like Suri?” He glanced at her as she sat hugging her knees, rocking as if in pain.

  “I’m not a mystic.”

  “What then? And don’t tell me you’re just a slave. I’m not buying that anymore.”

  “I was a slave…sort of, only…”

  “Only what?”

  “Well, I’m not sure you can really call it slavery when I volunteered for the position. Took me three days to convince Nyphron’s father to seal the collar around my neck. Zephyron was a wise, generous, and honorable Fhrey. He was my first choice.”

  “First choice for what?”

  “Emperor.”

  “What’s an emperor?”

  “Like a keenig, only bigger. Instead of being the ruler of all the clans, an emperor would be the leader of the world. A single leader would have the power to end conflicts between whole peoples, to disperse knowledge, and bring lasting peace to everyone—to unite what was broken. But Nyphron’s father had refused to listen—I suppose he wouldn’t have been the right person for the task if he had. Now Nyphron will become the first emperor.”

  “Nyphron, not Persephone?”

  Malcolm only smiled.

  “She marries him, right?”

  Malcolm sighed. “Certain things need to fall in a certain way. It isn’t always nice, and it’s rarely fair, but that’s the way it has to be in order to fix what was broken.”

  “And what is it that was broken?”

  No smile this time. Malcolm looked squarely at him and said, “The world.”

  Raithe laughed, but Malcolm wasn’t joking, and he stopped. “Okay…so how was it broken, or don’t you know?”

  “Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. I was the one who broke it.”

  Malcolm had been a puzzle ever since they met, a fussy, delicate man who knew so little and so much. Raithe understood Malcolm had lied to him, or at least avoided the truth. What Raithe found surprising was that he didn’t care. Maybe it was the lack of smugness. Raithe saw no malice, greed, or spite in Malcolm. He had no idea what benefit his friend might have gained from the deception. There didn’t appear to have been any. And there was an overwhelming sadness and sympathy that spilled from the man, a sense of guilt that had Raithe feeling sorry for him.

  “Malcolm? Who are you?”

  At this, the onetime servant who Raithe first imagined as a weasel or a fox—the man wh
o turned out to be a bit of both—frowned. “I can’t tell you.”

  “It’s not exactly like I’ll be repeating it to anyone, you know.”

  Malcolm sighed. “Don’t confuse can’t with won’t. That question can’t be answered in any way meaningful to you, maybe not to anyone—not yet. Perhaps one day there will be someone capable of understanding the answer. Perhaps one day there will be someone who doesn’t need to ask.”

  “So you don’t know everything?”

  Again, the smile. “Yes and no.”

  Raithe smirked. “Seriously?”

  Malcolm looked squarely at him. “I’m being honest here, and you have no idea how rare this is.” He smiled. “It’s not my fault you can’t understand what I’m telling you.”

  “I’m about to die—be nice.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Sorry. I suppose I could explain a little better.” Malcolm picked a pebble from the floor. “If I let this drop, I know it will fall. I also know it will fall right about here.” He pointed to the spot just below his hand. “We both know that, right? We both know this absolutely, but…” He let go of the pebble, and before it hit the ground, he brought his foot over and knocked the stone aside. “Things can change from moment to moment. Most of the time I’m right, but on occasion, someone’s foot gets in the way. Does that make any sense?”

  “How is that different from what anyone does? We all have expectations that don’t always—”

  “I don’t have expectations. I know. I know everything that will happen—unless it is altered. I realize this seems like a fine line of difference, but it isn’t.”

  “You mean you’re like Magda the oracle?”

  “In a way, but while I would say I know a good deal more than any tree, I’m far less wise.”

  Raithe made a point of looking him over. “I’m guessing you aren’t human. Are you Fhrey? Is that why you didn’t know our customs?”

  “I once told you the Fhrey, the Dherg, and the Rhunes were all related. They are. The differences came later. The Fhrey had it the easiest and lived longer as a result. The Dherg found solace in caves and were stunted, and in more ways than they’re willing to admit. Humans had it the worst of all. I’ve been late getting to them. You’re going to change all that. I’m sorry about this, about how things turned out. If it were possible…” He sighed. “Never mind.”